


Red Dead Domination

by LowHonorArthur



Series: Marston's Master, Mister Morgan [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Blackmail, Bondage, Emotional Manipulation, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 03:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30032085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LowHonorArthur/pseuds/LowHonorArthur
Summary: "John swore to himself that he would endure any torment he must to win the mark of Arthur's possession."This is the third installment of a series, do not start here.Tags to be added as the story progresses.Please be mindful of the warnings and tags attached to this work.Due to the graphic nature of this story it should not be viewed by anyone.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Marston's Master, Mister Morgan [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807486
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	Red Dead Domination

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, here we go guys.  
> Things are bound to get a little messy.

A light drizzle had begun to fall from the sky, the tiny droplets of moisture landing silently on the brim of Arthur's hat. Instinctively he lifted his gaze and traced it along the area within the tree line that was concealing his tent. Satisfied that his temporary lodgings would remain dry should this light spring rain intensify, he returned his attention to the carving in his hands. It was a horse, chiselled out slowly from a block of aged red cedar he'd liberated from the sagging ruin of an abandoned cabin. The legs were slender and delicate; he'd made a point of selecting the hardest wood he could find in hopes that Jack would be able to enjoy his new toy for a good while before inevitably snapping the vulnerable limbs. 

Arthur leaned forward and held the edge of his knife against the coals of his modest fire, relaxing and taking in the sounds of his surroundings as the metal heated. The rain had silenced the birds but the river remained steadfast, roaring gently as it's waters rushed past and carved delicate striations into the rocky embankment opposite of the sandy bed he'd chosen to make camp. The shore was more dirt than sand, though it was damp enough to ensure Arthur's fire wouldn't travel outside of the shallow pit he had dug to house it. 

He liked this spot. It was far enough from any beaten trail that unexpected company, at least the kind with two legs, was unlikely. If some sad wanderer did happen to come along in the night they would almost certainly be following the edge of the river, the trees and darkness would be more than enough to dissuade them from investigating the area and finding Arthur's tent. He could sleep without a guard, and sleep near as soundly as he could within the safety offered back at camp. 

The blade was ready. Arthur pulled it from the coals. Left any longer and it would begin to glow, compromising the temper of the hardened steel. Expert timing had become second nature from decades of experience working at the side of a fire. He pressed the serrations against the wood, the hot jagged teeth adding texture and colour to the ridges of the intricately carved saddle. After a few more rounds of heating & marking, the figure was finally completed. Arthur turned it over in his hands a few times to inspect it. He couldn't help but admire his work. It wasn't painted or adorned with decorative bits of metal like the toys he'd seen on store shelves, but it was a far sight finer than anything he'd had to play with as a boy. Arthur wrapped it up with some scrap fabric and tucked it away in his satchel, exchanging the toy for a half-full bottle of bourbon. Pulling the cork with his teeth, Arthur sipped at the bottle slowly while watching the fire spit and hiss as it fought to fend off the encroaching rain. 

The new warmth coursing through his body brought attention to how uncomfortable he felt perched on the fallen log he'd been using as a seat. He began shifting, putting his weight on each leg individually to help the blood get moving again. Arthur's stare never left the flames, and gradually he began to lose himself to his thoughts. 

Ever since that mess in Blackwater, the Van Der Lindes had found themselves in a precarious position. He had overheard Trelawny telling Dutch and Hosea all about this new agency of government contractors that were persuing them. The Pinkertons, they were called; Arthur had had the pleasure of meeting a few of them face-to-face before they began packing up and leaving Horseshoe Overlook behind them. Packing up and leaving wasn't unfamiliar to the gang, but the recent pressure from local and federal law was like nothing they'd faced before. There just didn't seem to be much space left for any of them, they'd barely get settled in and find they'd need to load up the wagons and move on again. Trelawny had described agency offices popping up in settlements further West than any of them had ridden before. The horizon was shrinking before their very eyes. 

Arthur couldn't lie to himself anymore, Dutch's 'plans' seemed careless. Losing Sean the way they did was just another unraveled thread in an ongoing web of miscalculations Dutch was all too eager to weave. This pursuit of money to fund a vague dream of freedom was killing Arthur's family off one by one, and it was getting harder each time to commit himself to the belief that Dutch really had their best interests at heart. 

And what had Arthur been doing to help? Between Dutch's scheming and Michas' fouled plans, Arthur had put more men in the ground these past few months than he'd ever had to in his 30 years past. He found himself lashing out, killing and robbing folks more to pass time than to fill the collection box. And John, well, Arthur wasn't sure what he was doing there. The gratification he took from the boy was a fine distraction, but he knew in the deepest pit of his heart that there was something else there. Some gnawing ache that had begun clouding Arthur's mind and tugging his perspective towards a favourable life outside of the gang. There were folk that needed taking care of, and Arthur would never abandon Hosea, but the unlikelihood of their gang surviving in the face of all this new civilization was a glaring reality. Arthur leaned forward and positioned his knife in the fire once more. 

In truth, Arthur hadn't ever been inclined towards the consideration of his own needs. Loyalty was the only driving force behind his actions, the only thing he'd ever understood and truly believed in. Loyalty to the gang made them family, and being family is what set them apart from the other roving gangs of cutthroat killers. It sounded real nice, but Arthur began to wonder if it was all just pretty words. More often lately he felt less like family and more like an overlooked workhorse, a mindless solider sent in to offer up his pound of flesh over and over again, just to see the people he loved whither away around him. They were _'free'_ , a claim Dutch enjoyed reaffirming to them through his repetitive speeches, but hesitating to accept an order or daring to voice any concern over the direction the gang was heading was painted as some grave treason. Is sending your family to die in the streets over some irrelevant dispute between two plantation houses loyalty? The hurt, the confusion, and the inability to act on any of it was a low simmer in the back of Arthur's mind at all times. 

Downing the last of his bottle, Arthur retrieved his knife from the coals. He pressed the searing edge against the calloused pad of his thumb and grimaced. The blistering heat was dulled through the thick deadened skin but it was exactly what he needed to pull himself from the dreary caverns of his thoughts. He turned his attention to one of the bare, pale feet bound to the log on either side of him. With an expressionless face he pressed the flat side of his blade against the soft skin in the centre of the sole. The foot startled and flexed. Arthur could feel slight movement through the log beneath him as the man bound to it shook to life with a strangled scream. Arthur pulled the metal away from the tortured skin, returning the blade to his sheath while he listened to the frantic gasps behind him slow down to a more level, composed pace. 

“How long was I out?”

Arthur continued to start at the fire. “Couple hours. It'll be night soon enough.”

John grunted in acknowledgement. 

“Seemed like you needed the rest.” Arthur continued. “I ain't been in camp all that often these past few weeks, you been staying up all night waiting on me?”

A small scoff caught in John's throat. “Ain't much room on that cot, so I've been sharing the floor with the boy...”

Arthur stirred the coals quietly.

“...thing is, he keeps having nightmares. Wakes up screaming and kicking, only thing that seems to calm him down is that mangy dog. Soon enough I'll be sharing my tent with Cain, too.”

Arthur smiled quietly. The soft rainfall had let up, a few ducks could be heard faintly in the distance.

“Uh, S-sir...?” John's voice cracked a little as he broke the silence.

“Mmm?”

“I gotta' piss.”

“Then go piss. I ain't aiming to stop ya.” Arthur chided nonchalantly. 

“I-” John bit off his argument as he took stock of his restraints. His hands were tied behind his back, both of them had gone numb long before he awoke. He flexed each of his legs, both tied at the ankle to the top of log. He was lying on his stomach, fully-clothed asides from his feet. Arthur had pulled off his socks and boots while he was tying John down. He shifted a bit, realizing only now that his clothes had sucked up moisture from the riverbed. 

Arthur stood up and moved over to John's side, looking down and grinning as John strained his neck to look back up at him. He placed the sole of his boot across the base of John's back and slowly shifted the bulk of his weight on to that foot. John groaned as the added pressure made an already uncomfortable sensation downright unbearable. After a few long moments the agony became too much, John's whimpers were pathetic and pleading as he felt a small dribble escape past the head of his cock. Humiliation flooded into John's cheeks as the danger of pissing himself became real. Arthur lifted his foot and walked away. The bound man pressed his forehead in to the cool dirt and focused all of his energy towards fighting against his own body.

Arthur walked past the fire and headed toward the treeline, dipping through the tall brush walling in the space he'd cleared for his tent. Both Palamedes and Old Boy nickered as he approached. Arthur reciprocated their greeting with similar warmth, cooing at them gently as he retrieved a large package and a cloth bundle from his saddlebag. 

“I'll be back with oatcakes, boys. Just settle in for the night, alright?” He murmured softly as he made his way back towards the brush. 

Upon his return Arthur placed his load down and added a few logs to the fire. After strategically arranging them and stirring up the coals to ensure the new wood would catch light, he cut the ties holding the cloth bundle together. The thick, rolled up towel relaxed from it's tight coil. Arthur placed it on the the log beside him, within reach of the fire's warmth but safe from the moisture of the dirt below. The package remained in place on the ground at his feet. 

Arthur slung himself over the log and turned his body away from the fire, his feet now positioned between John's spread legs. He had pinned them wide apart when he'd secured John's ankles to the log, producing an immodest spectacle of the younger man's clothed ass. So far, his pet had managed to resist his urgent need to relive himself. Arthur briefly considered pulling out a second piece of wood to whittle, considered busying himself until John couldn't contain himself any longer, but the night had begun to take on an awful chill and Arthur knew first hand the damage that could be done by the rope he'd cinched up around John's wrists. Tucking that particular humiliation in to the back of his mind for later, Arthur lent forward and slit the knotted rope with his knife. 

John immediately pulled his hands down toward the cool dirt, urging the blood to circulate. Slowly, tenderly, he began to flex each finger in turn; the exercise a welcome distraction from the stabbing pain in his abdomen. Arthur slit the ropes holding John's ankles, freeing him completely. Once the tingling ache of feeling returning to his hands subsided, John willed himself in to a seated position in the dirt facing his tormentor. He slowly brought his eyes up to meet Arthur's, his rich mahogany irises nearly indistinguishable from the black of his pupils blown wide in the darkness of the evening. 

“Well, go on and take care of that then.” Arthur said, nodding in the direction of a nearby spray of bushes. “Then come on back and warm up by the fire.” he added, turning himself back towards the crackling flames. 

John struggled to a standing position, wincing with each of his first few steps. Arthur had used the shaft of a beheaded arrow to strike the soles of his feet, eagerly unleashing the fires of hell across the tender skin. The rocks embedded in the dirt were merciless against his tortured soles. He hastily decided to pull himself out and empty his screaming bladder where he stood in a bid to reduce the amount of steps he'd have to take. He could hear a disapproving grunt from the man seated behind him, but the immediate relief he felt was worth whatever Arthur might have to say about it. John tucked himself back in to his pants and slowly walked towards the log beside the fire, stopping a few feet from his Master and patiently waiting for his instructions. 

“You feeling like you want to wash up first?” Arthur asked, gesturing towards the towel on the log. 

“I'd liked your idea of warming up.” John raised his hands and looked down, drawing Arthur's attention to his clothing. The damp earth had soaked the front of his outfit in every place it had contacted the dirt, right from his shoulders down to where his legs had been bent upwards to meet the log. The breeze coming off the river chilled John close to the point of shivering. 

“...unless you want me to right now, of course.” He added, lowering his chin to his chest.

“No, no. C'mere.” Arthur instructed John to peel off his wet clothes and get close to the fire. He picked the package up from the ground and slit the paper wrapping open with his knife. When he'd opened the box and looked up John was already kneeling naked beside the fire, his clothes in a heap beside him. Arthur enjoyed watching as John carefully shifted to avoid placing any weight on his sore feet. 

Standing, Arthur placed the open box on the log where he had sat. He stepped around the fire, collected John's clothes from the ground and spread them out over a large rock. When Arthur turned back towards the fire he caught John's curious stare. Arthur shrugged, explaining that the clothes wouldn't dry in a pile on the damp soil. John nodded in thanks and returned to the task of warming his hands above the lick of the flames. 

Arthur retook his spot on the log, placing the package on his lap as he did. Once more he found John's gaze settling on him with quiet curiosity. Arthur smiled warmly, the flickering light of the fire dancing on his features highlighted the mischief in his eyes. 

“'Got you another present.” He said. 

John eyed the box suspiciously. It was fairly large, a rectangular shaped thing roughly three feet across, maybe two wide. It wasn't thin, either. There could be any manner of things inside, the possibilities made John nervous.

“Mmm, maybe we wait for that,” Arthur said to himself mindlessly as he placed the box down, flaps and paper still obscuring the contents. He reached for his satchel instead, pulling out and offering some bread, cheese, and salted meat to John. John hesitated, but Arthur shook his offering insistently. “Eat something, John.”

John took the food and ate in silence.

“I had plenty of time to eat while you took your nap.” Arthur's tone was somewhat accusatory. “I didn't think that would have been enough to knock you out.”

“M'sorry.” John said between bites.

“Sorry?” Arthur asked, amusement sparking in his deep blue stare.

“Didn't mean to spoil your fun.” John's tone took on a mournful, bitter quality. 

They sat in an uncomfortable silence as John finished eating. Unable to stand the awkwardness, John spoke up once he'd finished chewing.

“You know when you told me you were going to stop leaving marks on my body, I was fool enough to think that you'd gotten tired of hurting me.”

Arthur had expressed that intention to John on their return from Valentine; he had hoped that allowing John's skin to heal would take away some of the urgency behind Abigail's concerns for his safety. John knew that Arthur got off on abusing him, Arthur wondered if perhaps John thought that he'd lost interest in him after that night. Taking off for the weeks following certainly must have helped strengthen that insecurity. Well, no room for doubt now.

The shrieks and sobs Arthur had beaten out of John this afternoon had been some of the best yet. Arthur had genuinely thought the echos of John's screams bouncing through the nearby cliffs might trigger a rock-slide. Arthur grinned. The memory of those sounds paired with the image of John's body thrashing in the dirt rekindled the sadistic heat within Arthur; a dark pleasure that rose up slowly through his veins and enrobed his body as though he were stepping in to the water of a hot spring. His eyes raked over John's nakedness, biting the corner of his lip as he mentally toured the memory immortalized by each scar adorning Jonh's body. No, it was impossible to fathom that he would ever grow bored of pushing John towards the threshold of madness. 

“I can drown a man without killing him, what made you think I couldn't torture a man without marking him up?”.

“Wishful thinking, I suppose.” John conceded dully. 

They were silent again for a short while, passing a liquor bottle back and forth until Arthur reached suddenly for the package. As he pulled it open John could see that it contained dark fabric, a folded garment of some sort. Arthur pulled it out, placed it on the towel, then reached in the box for a second garment. Red this time. Arthur handed it to John. 

“Here. You're still trembling. Put this on.”

John began to unfold the fabric, still stiff and brightly coloured. It was a union suit, clearly a brand new purchase. John looked up briefly before he began opening the buttons to slip inside of the heavy flannel. It felt starchy and strange against his skin. John couldn't recall the last time he'd had something new on his body. 

“Yours are in a pretty sorry state, figured you could use a new pair. How are your feet?” Arthur patted the towel on the log beside him. John took a seat beside Arthur, noticing that Arthur had returned the other garment into the box.

“The burn still stings, everything else feels...” John lifted one of his feet upwards to inspect it, “...well, normal.” John furrowed his brow as he looked at the sole of his foot closely. There was maybe a slight redness, but that could easily be a trick from the warm glow of the fire. The repeated impact of Arthur's arrow had been exceptionally painful, John was baffled at how something so excruciating could possibly fade away so rapidly. Arthur took a hold of John's other foot, bringing it to rest on his lap. He applied some salve to the mark his heated knife had left behind, massaging it in with great care. John's cheeks flushed as he watched Arthur tend to him. 

“Thank you...” John breathed. Arthur looked up and held John's eyes in his own. “...for the suit, I mean.” He added bashfully, quickly evading the intensity of Arthur's eye contact. 

Arthur nodded. “I got you something else,” he said as he handed the box to John. 

The dark garment John had seen earlier turned out to be a coat. Arthur encouraged John to try it on. It was fancy, too fancy to pair well with anything else John owned. It fit well, though it felt a bit roomy over John's scant cladding. 

Arthur looked concerned. 

“You don't like it?”

“No, no. It's great.” John ran his hand along the seams of the arm. The stitching was tight and strong, common signs of quality craftsmanship. This was a much finer garment than he'd ever owned before. “I guess I'm just relieved it's not a dress, is all.”

Arthur's eyes narrowed as he processed what John had said. “Would you have... _liked_ it to be?” he asked carefully. 

“I- no! God no.” John shifted nervously. “You had said something about dressing me up for whoring once, I just-”

“You know, Johnny, men can be whores too.” The concern in Arthur's expression had been replaced with the sparkle of amusement from earlier.

John reached for the bottle and took a deep swig, continuing to avoid looking at the older man. The snapping of the burning embers grew louder as the men finished the bottle in silence. Despite his bare feet and the light breeze that wound it's way through the trees, John felt warm and protected in his new clothes. The salve had taken the pain out of his foot, and the alcohol had emboldened him somewhat. John leaned against Arthur and softly whispered another 'thank you'. Arthur's arm came up around John's shoulders and held him close. 

“You ain't going to be happy to hear it, but that coat of yours does happen to be for "date" you're going on.”

A rush of panic tore through John's abdomen. He stared up at Arthur with wide eyes. “What?”

Arthur smiled and stroked John's hair. “We'll talk about it in the morning,” he said, intentionally lining his tone with malice. “Let's head to the tent. You've got a long day ahead of you.”

They put out the fire and tidied up their camp in silence, the anxiety John felt was palpable. Arthur could have easily taken the time to explain what he'd had in mind but he was enjoying the discomfort rolling off of the younger man too much to soothe it away. When they were finally settled in the tent, Arthur guided John into place beside him. He held John's body against his own, his grip firm enough to serve as a silent reminder of his control over the boy, but intimate & tender enough to feed John's destructive desperation for love.


End file.
